I woke up already wet.
The strings between my legs had shifted in the night, pulled tighter by the way I’d moved in my sleep. My c**t was swollen and throbbing against the thin, crusted lines. His c*m from the night before had dried on my thighs in sticky patches. The collar of red string still circled my throat like a claim.
Professor Hale was already awake.
He was sitting in a chair across from the bed, fully dressed for class—dark trousers, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms—watching me the way he watched students who thought they could lie to him. One ankle rested on the opposite knee. In his hands was a fresh coil of red string.
“Morning, Miss Voss.”
My voice came out rough. “Morning, Hale.”
He stood. Walked to the edge of the bed. “On your back. Legs open. Arms a
